Christmas for the Spartans
by Koriat Cyredanthem
Summary: After destroying the Didact, John reunited with Kelly, Linda, and Fred, and found themselves given an indefinite leave of absence on a ship with a bunch of Marines who made it their mission to teach the Spartans how to enjoy the peace they had created. It all culminates in a Christmas party of epic proportions – and the presents are the pinnacle of the day.


"John."

"Mmmm?" John rolled over onto his stomach, fighting waking. Kelly had kept him up late last night. How she could sound so awake was beyond him.

"Wake up."

"Why?" It was a logical question, he thought. There was no urgency in his sister's voice, after all.

"Because I said so."

"You ain't leader." John buried his face back in his arms – he slept without a pillow, which was good news for Linda, who enjoyed having two in her bed – and tried to ignore the other Spartans' presence.

"How about 'cause I asked you nicely?"

_That_ made John frown. Kelly never asked anything nicely, unless she was talking to a superior. He might be her superior, but in this garage, until orders were given, they were simple siblings, partners.

"Or how about 'get your lazy ass out of bed before I chase you up and down the ship'? Would that be more like it?"

_There's the Kelly I know_, John thought to himself, cracking open one eye. "What do you want?" he asked, yawning. To his surprise, Kelly was dressed in her formal suit, and her short hair was held to her head with several small green and red clips.

"Do you have any idea what day it is?"

"Well, I went to sleep the morning of the 25th because _someone_ just _had_ to have a sparring partner, and I haven't slept more than three hours, so it's likely still the 25th."

"Smart ass. Fine, don't get presents."

"Wait, what?" John frowned in confusion, but Kelly was already gone, out of the four Spartans' bedroom and into the garage beyond it. Grumbling, John sat up and grabbed a pair of fatigues, slipping his dog tags over his head and pulling on a pair of pants. He thought about putting on a shirt but decided against it – it was pleasantly warm on the ship. Glancing at the other beds, the Chief noted that Fred and Linda were already gone.

He went out into the garage and paused, taking in the scene before him. How he'd managed to sleep through the set-up was beyond him. Maybe that had been Kelly's purpose in the sparring match…

The room was dominated by what _looked_ like a green tree, made from the four Spartans' MJOLNIR suits, bedecked with rifles, ammo boxes, grenades – painted, he noticed – and a variety of tools in a parody of a Christmas tree. Someone had even wired the penlights every scientist carried – and which were lost more frequently than any other item on board – into a chain of sparkling notes against the dark green armor.

There were four tables around the "tree" piled with food, drink, and brightly-colored presents. One of the tables was equipped with a holotank, on which the ship's AI stood. While she was her normal grey-green color, the AI was also sporting a bright red holographic Santa hat and unconnected pieces of red clothing trimmed with white that on a human would have been called revealing. Since her holographic form resembled a woman in her thirties, plump but not obese, the bits of clothing did a good approximation of being skimpy on her hard-light form as well.

There were about thirty people in the room. John saw his Spartan siblings towering over the crowd, and picked out a couple other faces in the chaos before he eyes were drawn back towards someone calling his name.

"Get a shirt on, you barbarian," Kelly laughed, extracting herself from a crowd of Marines and shooing the Chief back towards the bedroom. "Merry Christmas, John," she added, more quietly, smiling.

"What is this?" he asked, completely bewildered. They'd learned about religious traditions – and holidays with religious roots – from their AI teacher so many years ago, but they'd never really celebrated them. Soldiers worshipped good intel and celebrated victory.

"It's a Christmas celebration, stupid," Kelly replied. "Some of the crew decided we shouldn't be so exclusive anymore – after all, you _did_ manage to save humanity – again – and everyone's here to celebrate, so why the hell not?"

John simply frowned slightly. "And our armor?" he asked, pulling his pants off and finding his dress suit. It didn't bear the full chest of medals – he had to pin each one on if he needed to wear them all, because they stretched the fabric otherwise – but it was crisp and clean. He started dressing.

"If you look real close, you'll see it's all old stuff we've outgrown – or destroyed."

John merely hummed, pinning his Spartan eagle and rank tags to his chest.

"Come on, John, let's have some fun. And if I catch you moping again, I'll beat you up – guests or no." With that friendly threat, Kelly offered her arm.

"Aren't I supposed to offer you _my_ arm?" John asked her, nonetheless slipped his hand inside the crook of her elbow.

"We both know who wears the pants in this relationship," Kelly chuckled, sliding sideways slightly to fit both of them through the door. "I'll let you lead when we dance."

"Dance?" John muttered, starting to frown again.

"Yes, dance, and yes, you _will_ be dancing with at _least_ three people besides me and Linda, and if you don't wipe that frown off your face, I'll stick you _in_ our bright and shiny Christmas tree and pull all the pins on those grenades."

"I guess I should say I look forward to dancing, then," John murmured, grinning slightly.

"Damn straight." Kelly tugged him into a group of Marines who opened their circle in a welcoming gesture, grinning politely but also happily to see the two Spartans.

_Everything's changed so much_, John thought to himself as he greeted the Marines. He knew them all by name – and not just last, but first as well, and tried to remember to use it when talking informally. They were common poker players in the rec center, and usually managed to eat at least one meal with the four Spartans – the only ones alive, out of the original thirty.

_Don't go down that road,_ John thought to himself, listening to a funny story being related by Private Nick Amberton. _She wouldn't want you to._

It had been several months since Cortana had died, saving him from a nuclear blast – and thus ensuring humanity kept their hero. He still remembered her last words to him, every detail of her holographic form. They'd worked together for eight years, one year longer than smart AIs usually lived, though he had slept through four of them in the icy grip of cryosleep onboard the _Forward Unto Dawn_.

Though John had been very happy to see his three remaining siblings alive and relatively unharmed again, he still missed Cortana with a fierceness he had never felt before. He'd talked about it with several people, but the one person he truly wanted to talk to, Dr. Halsey, was out of reach. Rumor said she had survived the Shield World, but none of his siblings would – or could, perhaps – tell him where she was.

All four Spartans had endured lengthy award ceremonies. Kelly had been awarded several ribbons and medals, including – amusingly – POW, since Dr. Halsey _had_ technically kidnapped her in an act of treason. Fred's rank as Lieutenant had been confirmed and his armor now sported the appropriate rank. John, because of his acts against the Didact and on Reqieum, had been promoted as well, to Lieutenant Commander. Most people still called him the Master Chief, though. Kelly and Linda had also been promoted, to Chief Petty Officers, and Kelly constantly joked that now _she_ was the Chief.

After the award ceremonies, they attended memorials – for their dead, now that ONI was finally admitting Spartan deaths, and others'. John, at the invitation of the Arbiter, had even attended a few Sangheili services, though these were much less solemn and _much_ shorter than human funerals. The Sangheili spent up to fifteen minutes extolling the traits and feats of the dead Elite and then airlocked them near enough to a star that the body would be consumed by the heat.

Then all formalities had been dispensed with, and now the four Spartans were between missions. Brass was still scrambling to deal with the sudden end to overt hostilities. There were factions of all races out there, humans included, who wanted to continue fighting, for various reasons. The majority of the Elites, however, favored a Sangheili-human alliance, as did most of the upper echelon of the UEG, helped along by the simple fact that humanity couldn't afford more fighting.

So the Spartans, at the moment, were floating on a ship next to Jupiter, waiting for news of Jackal pirates, Covenant Storm rebels, human insurgents, or other warring parties to make themselves known. They were out here on a ship instead of on Earth, or even Mars, because no one wanted half the population trying to get into the base to see the famous super-soldiers themselves. After some not-too-bright Marine had decided to take bribes and let in small parties, brass had decided to move the siblings off-world – and hadn't told many people exactly _where_ their ship was.

Despite the availability of quarters, the Spartans had chosen to stick to what they knew, and so had commandeered one of the smaller garage bays to live and sleep in, their cots tucked into one of the storage rooms. Usually, the larger room had a few tables, for tinkering with their armor or reading – they used the ship gym for sparring – but was barren otherwise. Spartans were never precisely _bored_, and there was always cryo, but the four siblings were loathe to sleep through their reunion.

However, the Marines and crew had started making tentative expressions of friendship about a month ago, and now the Spartans were comfortable with the soldiers and crewmen. In return, those who chose to be around the large men and women knew that their apparent stoniness and silence was not intentional but a result of habit and training, and had done their best to introduce the four siblings to all of the usual Marine pastimes. Some of their efforts had met with brilliant success, such as poker – which John was no longer allowed to play for anything more important than duties – and others with disaster, such as trying to teach Spartans how to play Hide and Seek, and still others with humorous stories, like when Kelly and Linda had been "kidnapped" by the female Marines, and John and Fred by the men, and put into formal attire for a throwback "prom" from the 21st century. It had been the Spartans' first time dancing, and they had found they enjoyed it – even if Kelly tended to turn it into a test of strength and stamina.

Nick finished his tale and the round of hearty laughter brought John back to the present. He chuckled politely, though he hadn't heard the punch line, and another Marine began countering the tale with one of his own.

"There you are," Crewman Julie Anderson said, approaching. After a few close calls, everyone on board had learned not to try sneaking up on a Spartan – if they managed, they often found themselves across the room in quite a bit of pain.

Both Kelly and John turned, a synchronized movement the majority of Marines had gotten used to after the past month.

"John, I'd like your expertise on something," she said, glancing at Kelly. "We'd welcome yours, too, Kelly."

Kelly shook her head slightly, shoving John gently towards Julie. "Go on, John," she said encouragingly. "I can't always be here to hold your hand, you awkward butterfly."

John retorted with a friendly sneer and offered his arm to Julie. "Lead the way." Julie chuckled, reaching up to take the proffered arm, though their height difference made it slightly awkward. John wondered if all the women wore high heels specifically so they could dance with one of the Spartans – otherwise, it was close to impossible for anyone not considered tall, and embarrassing for the tall ones.

"How are you?" John asked as they made their way through the crowd. His bulk was good for clearing a path, and they moved quickly despite the crush.

"Good, good," Julie replied, grinning. "I finally figured out what was rattling in that damn Pelican."

"Oh, good." John remembered her talking about it, vaguely. "Nothing important, I hope?"

"Nope, not too bad. Imagine if your armor had stickers. It's kind of like it lost a sticker."

"Stickers can be important," John said, remembering the first trials on attaching permanent numbers to the suits of armor. Instead of going through a laborious process of stamping it into the hardened plates, the technicians at the time had decided to use stickers. They had been soaked through with blood within moments on the battlefield, and fell off quickly after that.

"Alright, well, it was a smiley face sticker."

John smiled slightly. Julie was one of the crewmen closest to the four Spartans, for her outgoing personality was just enough to bring them out of their shells without making them uncomfortable. She could always make them smile, and she shared stories and tips about living as real soldiers, not super-human Spartan myths.

"Alright, let's see here." There were four crewmen waiting, apparently discussing something in detail. Upon the pair's arrival, though, they welcomed Julie with grins and Johns with cries of "Merry Christmas!" It was a common well-wishing greeting during this time of year, in historical times.

"John, you know Randy and Kismit, and these two ruffians are Bric and Luke." John shook the two proffered hands, and received – and returned, gently – friendly claps on the shoulders with Randy and Kismit. Bric had greying brown hair, while Luke was similarly showing his age, though his hair was pepper-and-salt colored, his beard starting to turn as well. Both men had sharp gazes, intelligence – and a little awe – behind their matched brown eyes. They looked alike, too – John was willing to bet they were brothers.

Randy was in charge of John's MJOLNIR suit, and they had formed a close working relationship while upgrading the armor with Forerunner technology that had naturally evolved into a more personal association. The man was taller, around 6'4", with sandy-blonde hair and dark brown eyes. He was built sturdily, which made many who saw him think he lived on the Marine side of operations, but his true talent lay in reverse engineering Forerunner technology. He was brilliant, and John often found himself comparing the man against Dr. Halsey and Cortana – often in the man's favor because he was less worried about _if_ something would work than _how_ he could make it so.

Kismit, on the other hand, was one of the crewmen assigned to the ship's engines, and would be perfectly happy living in the engineering rooms if he didn't also share a fondness for debate and unfortunately off-key, _very_ loud singing as he wandered through the hallways between duties. He fit the typical pencil-neck geek archetype of a scientist though there was strength in his frame – he had to be strong to lift the heavier pieces of machinery required to do his job. His flaming hair and blue eyes were a rare combination nowadays, and he often joked about building himself a harem of women with whom he could pass on his genes.

Bric introduced himself as a visiting engineer, and introduced Luke as his brother and partner-in-crime. They worked for an independent weapons manufacturing firm, which John had heard of. Specifically, it was the one which Dr. Halsey had originally contracted with to build the prototype MJOLNIR armor, and later the full versions.

Bric had drawn up some possible plans for a suit of MJOLNIR-like armor that could be used by non-augmented humans. John found himself frowning slightly at the thought as the man explained his vision. The armor was special to Spartans – it required the super-dense bone and muscular structure they had all had grafted into their bodies so long ago. If everyone could wear one, would Spartans become obsolete?

"But we're having problems with the same thing that makes the Spartans so special," Bric said, pursing his lips.

"The armor is simply too expensive to produce in any quantity," Luke elaborated, shifting his stance slightly. "We've found a way to mitigate most of the necessary augmentations to use the suit. You need to be taller, stronger, and faster than the average human, but there are a _lot_ of Marines who fit that description. The only augmentations required would be a slight hardening of bone and we've been discussing…"

The conversation devolved into a biological discussion of exactly how much strain a human body – unaugmented and augmented to various degrees – could withstand. John offered his own experiences and ideas, recalling his first time trying on the armor and bruising his wrist while trying to salute.

"We aren't looking to replace any of you, Chief," Bric said after John brought up the point that Spartans were special – and sometimes replicating a program with less funding and lowered standards could be hazardous. One only had to look at the history of the Spartan IIIs to know that. He didn't discuss the IIIs, though – they _were_ still protected by ONI blackout laws, and so far as these engineers knew, Lucy, Tom, and their siblings and cousins didn't exist.

"It's just, well, you aren't going to be around forever." John nodded, though the engineer had made the comment delicately. Every Spartan knew their mortality was real, and most of them had met their deaths. It was a waiting game for the remaining four. "And the IVs are all well and good, but there just aren't enough of them. Dr. Halsey called you "humanity's next step," and I firmly believe that – that augmented soldiers and suits like the MJOLNIR Mark 8 are going to start making up a large portion – maybe not majority, at least yet – of the military, and quite possibly police and humanitarian forces. Imagine what scientists could discover if they could enter hostile environments with only a suit instead of a whole ship between them and their subject of study." John inclined his head slightly, indicating that he heard the argument – but didn't necessarily agree with it.

"She also admits she was wrong," John said quietly, thinking back to what Kelly had said their mother had told her about the doctor's mistakes.

Before Bric or Luke could come up with a counter-argument, Fred marched over, slinging an arm around John's shoulders and staggering the slightly taller man. "Hey, John," he said, grinning. "Luke, Bric, Randy, Julie, Kismit." He nodded to each of them. "Are you torturing my brother with your new suit proposals?" Fred glowered – unthreateningly – at the five. He was wearing his dress uniform just like everyone else, but he also had on a floppy red hat with white fur-like trim and a poofy ball at the end.

"I wouldn't call it torture," Bric protested.

"This is a party!" Fred shook his head in mock reprimand. "And we're about to start the games anyway. Put away your toys, let's go see who can hold the record for bobbing for apples."

"What's bobbing for apples about?" John muttered as he let his brother guide him towards the other end of the room. Most of the crowd was starting to orient themselves that way as well.

"Some sort of Christmas or Halloween or some celebratory tradition. It involves apples, water, and laughs – that's all I know. I had to carry the apples."

John noted that Kelly rolled her eyes as the two males found their sisters and gathered to sit together. Chairs had been arranged in three rows, arching around a sort of stage made from several of the stacking pallets.

Unsurprisingly, the figure standing on said stage, miming holding a microphone, was Kris, an older soldier who, through four different campaigns and the death of his entire family, nevertheless maintained a sense of humor and appreciation for life that none on the ship could rival.

"Yes, yes, let's be seated," he bellowed at the few stragglers. In his day, the man had been a drill sergeant, and he knew how to use his voice.

"We all know why we're here, it's Christmas, blah blah blah." A few in the audience chuckled or jeered good-naturedly. "But what we're _really_ here for is to thank our brave Spartans – and to show them how soldiers have a good time!" There were many hoots and cheers, and a few of the people closest to John and his siblings glanced at them, grinning mischievously. All four Spartans exchanged simultaneous glances – it was clear the entire ship had something planned, which they weren't ready for.

"Now, I'll need a volunteer." Corporal Lucky bravely nudged Kelly, who was sitting on his left.

"No way," Kelly hissed, growling slightly at the man.

"Kelly volunteers!" Lucky yelled, pointed to the woman. Kelly shook her head vehemently, but the rest of the crowd took up the call. John smirked – now he could get some payback.

"Go on, Chief Petty Officer," he said, grinning at her. While he would never abuse his rank against her wishes, but for this, John knew Kris had something special in mind for the Spartan. "I'll save your seat."

Kelly glared at him but stood, to an increase in cheers and whistles. Setting her face to a neutral expression – John could, of course, tell she was actually having fun – the tall woman stepped carefully onto the stage, checking her footing.

"It's okay, it won't break," Kris called to her, holding out a hand in a beckoning gesture. There were a few titters from the crowd. "We did design it with Spartans in mind."

Kelly stood quietly beside the man, waiting for whatever he was planning stoically. Kris waved to a pair of people on the opposite side of the room from where John sat, and they brought up a large tub that sloshed as though full of water. They set it down in front of Kelly.

"Now, I know we all have played at this game before," Kris told the crowd, "but our poor Spartan friends have never bobbed for apples." There was lots of amused laughter. With the end of the war, a lot of previously-classified information – such as the origin of the Spartan IIs – had been leaked, though ONI had clever backup files that "disproved" the rumors. No one paid attention to those, though.

"Who'd like to show us how it's done?" Kris picked out an enthusiastic volunteer, who dashed onto the stage and grinned at Kelly and then – alarmingly – dove head-first into the bucket. Kelly almost grabbed the man, uncertain whether this was part of the game, but when Kris just told her to "watch closely," she settled back to do just that.

The man fished around for a little while, getting thoroughly soaked – and covering the stage in quite a bit of water – before coming up, a gleaming red apple, not freeze-dried like so many other foods aboard the ship, held triumphantly in his teeth. He turned to the crowd, raising both fists in victory, and they responded _very_ enthusiastically.

He took a bite out of the fruit and shook himself off before descending from the stage again, accepting a towel from one of the two people who seemed to be in charge of running the background of the games. They stood guard over a variety of boxes and items, most of which John couldn't identify.

"Alright, Kelly, your turn!" Kris told the Spartan woman, grinning gleefully. Kelly eyed the large bucket of water, then shrugged and carefully knelt by its side. While the Marine had been small enough to swim in the bucket a little, she could easily bend over the lip in that position.

"Remember, no hands, no peeking!"

Kelly nodded and plunged head-first into the water, hands held lightly behind her back, to the obvious amusement of the crowd.

She came up three seconds later with an apple, held delicately between her teeth by the stem. There was a pause of astonished silence – John, Linda, and Fred, though, grinned – before the crowd screamed in laughter and congratulations.

"Well," Kris said after everyone had calmed down a little, "maybe next time we'll make you swim for 'em." He grinned at Kelly, who merely replied with a chuckle before dismounting the stage.

"Alright, you three, who's next?" she asked, taking a bite out of the apple and shaking the water out of her eyes. "I'm not the only one getting made a fool of today."

"I vote Fred," Linda said quietly, grinning at her brother.

Fred just chuckled good-naturedly and went up on the stage. Kris greeted him with a grin and a firm handshake. While the exchange took place, the two stage-hands moved the bobbing-for-apples contraption off the stage and onto a tarp. It was soon surrounded by a few Marines who wanted to try their luck rather than see what the next game would be.

"I need two more volunteers from our audience to play Twister with Fred," Kris called as the stagehands spread a mat with several hand-sized colored dots on the stage, four across and eight deep, the full mat measuring just over two meters wide and three meters tall. They twitched it straight and then nailed it down in several places while Kris picked his volunteers. Then one of the pair handed Kris a small board, which he took with a grin – and held to his chest when Fred tried to see what it was.

"Fred, George, Big Mack, line up on the mat – one on each side." Fred chose the side closest to the edge of the stage, his side to the crowd, while George stood opposite him and Big Mack faced the crowd.

"Now you just do what I tell you to do," Kris told Fred, grinning. "You'll understand this later, but here are the rules: socks only, no lifting your hands or feet, no repositioning, no tickling, no sharing dots, and no butts or knees or elbows on the ground! Got it?" All three participants nodded, though Fred looked slightly confused, and they took off their shoes.

"Alright, left foot to green," Kris called. After a pause to see what his neighbors would do, Fred put his foot firmly on a green dot, which meant he was very close to the audience. "Right hand, blue." All three bent over, Fred balancing easily on his left foot, and placed their right hand on blue. "Left foot, red." Obligingly, Fred moved his left foot over, and remembered not to raise his right hand from its blue dot. He was now hunkered down in one edge of the mat. "Left hand, green."

Fred frowned at the mat. It was just large enough that keeping his right hand on blue and his left foot on red made it difficult – not impossible, but difficult – to move to the assigned position. Nevertheless, with careful balance, he managed it, and was now in a slightly awkward position, facing the audience, who laughed as Big Mack made the reach and nearly fell, catching himself at the last moment.

"Right foot red!" Kris ordered. Fred set his foot down and was now in a sort of lunging position. "Right foot blue!" Fred moved his foot up a step.

"Come on, Kris, give 'em something interesting!" one of the Marines in the crowd yelled.

"Right foot yellow."

Fred stepped one line of dots further up, twisting slightly to keep his balance. He looked like a crab. Behind him, Big Mack swore softly to himself.

"Left hand blue." Fred frowned. His right hand was already on the closest blue dot, so he leaned carefully backward and placed his left hand on a blue dot, which happened to be right underneath George.

"Hey, Fred," George chuckled, similarly contorted himself.

"Left hand red."

Fred lifted his hand over one row to a red dot. He was supporting most of his weight on that arm now, and John knew he would need to reposition himself for a better distribution of weight if he wanted to stay in the game.

"Right hand to yellow." Fred took the opportunity to recenter his weight over his legs more, but since they were in front of his body, it wasn't working well. Big Mack, on the other hand, seemed downright comfortable.

"Left hand green." That gave Fred to opportunity to right himself as he reached his hand across the mat, once again balancing on his feet.

"Right foot yellow. No, wait, we had that. Um." Kris respun the board in his hand. "Left foot blue."

Fred growled softly, shifting his full weight to his right foot and hand, moving his left foot to a blue dot – and nearly stepped on George, who grinned in apology as Fred was forced to stretch his leg out past the man, underneath George's side, to find an unoccupied blue dot.

"Aaaand right foot blue!"

"We're going to have to share," Fred said, glancing up at Kris. "Or there aren't enough."

"Well, then, looks like you're sharing," Kris laughed.

Shrugging slightly, Fred moved his right foot over, nearly missing George's fingers. Now Fred was all tangled up, holding himself by sheer strength.

"Right hand red!"

Fred shifting, wobbling slightly as he was forced to move his stabilizing hand. George, who had been oriented away from the red, had a worse time, and nearly fell.

"Right hand green."

"Sadist," Big Mack laughed, moving his hand over. To do so, he twisted his body – never lifting his feet or left hand – and so his face was right next to Fred's knee, on top of George's thigh. Fred glanced down at the Marine as he completed his own shift.

"Left foot red."

Fred grunted, eyeing his situation. His left foot was actually under George, who was in a good position to make the switch but his arm prevented Fred from moving to the closest red dot. Instead, Fred carefully pulled his leg out from under the Marine and then was forced to slide it under the man's head. George rested his head on Fred's thigh.

"Aw, thanks, Fred," George laughed.

"Right foot green."

Fred moved his appropriate foot from blue to green and found himself stuck in a bridge position, facing the ceiling. George was still using his thigh as a pillow, and now Big Mack was climbing over him a little as well.

Kris continued calling left or right hand or foot and a color, and much laughter was had by all. Big Mack finally lost his balance and fell, nearly taking Fred – on whose elbow the Marine landed – with him. After extracting himself, it was down to Fred and George.

"Left foot green!"

John could tell this was going to be difficult. Fred had both feet on red, his right hand across the mat on yellow, his left hand sneaking under George to reach a nearby blue. To get his left foot all the way over to green, the big man would need to either pick up his right foot to move his left under it, or slide it somehow underneath George without letting his knee touch the ground, and that choice would leave him in the splits. George was in a better position, easily moving his foot to the required dot.

The crowd noted Fred's predicament and jeered, a few yelling helpful comments like "Don't fall!" or "over there!"

Fred, though, was not a Spartan for nothing. He carefully, without lifting his hands or right foot, nudged his knee straight and then balanced solely on his hands to make the shift. The room was tense as his left foot inched towards the green dot. George tried to help, lifting out of the way as much as possible, and Fred's toe slid over the green line to cheers.

"Damn that's one flexible man," one of the Marines, newly arrived on rotation, whistled. John merely grinned. Fred was great at hand-to-hand combat, and part of that required flexibility – but if you wanted _flexible_, you talked to Linda.

"Oh, Fred, you're going to hate this," Kris said with sympathy, eyeing the Spartan's contorted position. "Right foot green."

The entire crowd burst into spontaneous boos and cheers. George moved quickly, getting himself out of the way; Fred surveyed his situation and then nodded to himself. He had a plan.

John, despite himself, leaned forward in anticipation. Not only was Fred clever, but he liked to have fun – and the big man _looked_ like he had something in mind.

Instead of moving his foot over to the closest green dot, Fred arched his back and twisted, keeping his left foot and both hands on the mat but managing – with a dislocating _pop_ from both shoulders – to turn just enough that his right foot made it to a green dot without his ever falling down. As several soldiers cringed, Fred calmly rotated his hands – not lifting them from the mat but twisting the mat underneath, careful not to tear it – until his shoulders popped back in.

Kris looked slightly green as Fred settled his shoulders back in place with a shrug. The Spartan was now in a much better position, in a frozen crab-walk stance.

"I give up," George said, collapsing to the mat. "There's no way I can beat _that_."

Fred chuckled, standing up and offering the Marine a hand. "Good game," he said quietly, coming to sit next to John and putting his shoes back on. "We could have used it to teach flexibility."

"Or how to dislocate your shoulders," John agreed, grinning a bit. Fred flashed him some teeth – have agreeing smile, half baring them in pleasure – and turned his attention back to the stage. The stagehands had removed the mat and Kris was beckoning to Linda. Linda, true to her form of being more of a watcher than participant, was denying his invitation.

"Oh, come on, Linda," Kris cajoled, "I promise not to embarrass you." He had come off the stage and, apparently forewarned, the Marines were moving to the sides of the room. They cleared the chairs and invited the three Spartans _not_ being chosen to help with the game demonstration to join them along the wall.

Linda, abandoned in good humor, glared slightly at her siblings before turning to Kris. He was holding out a square piece of cloth.

"Blindfold yourself," he said, grinning. With a slight sigh, Linda did as told, tying the knot snugly against the back of her head.

There were several Marines moving the tables – and the large "tree" out of the way, and in its place, something was lowered from the ceiling. This garage had been used for small vehicle repairs, such as Warthogs, and it had a considerable pulley system rigged into the ceiling. Now, lowering from one of the pulleys, was a red ball, covered in cheerful bits of colored tissue paper.

"Now, Linda, we're going to be along the sides of the room, so don't go for us," Kris told the blindfolded Spartan, accepting a stick of wood from a stagehand. Fred and John both watched, confused, but Kelly apparently had some idea what was happening and grinned. "I'm going to disorient you – if I can – and then your target stands where the tree was. Use this," Kris put the bat in her hand, "to hit the target, as hard as you can."

John noted that there were several Marines standing near the pulley controls and guessed they would be moving said target.

"How big?" Linda asked.

"Oh, not too small. At least half a meter across. Ready?"

Linda nodded, swinging the bat by her side slightly. Kris beckoned to Kelly, apparently unwilling to try spinning the larger woman, and instructed her on how to spin Linda several times, moving her forward slightly, in an effort to disorient the Spartan.

Once Kelly was done, she muttered, "Good luck," and stepped back with Kris to their position along the wall. Linda stood still for a moment, likely waiting for someone to speak and give her an indication of where she was in relation to the walls of the room, at least.

John remained silent, though, knowing she knew where he was – and if he spoke, his sister would easily orient herself. He wanted to see what she would do.

When in doubt, a Spartan acts, so Linda acted. She stepped forward slowly, carefully, testing the ground beneath her feet as though she might stumble into a pit any moment. John knew she was feeling for the grooved lines that ran along the garage floor and knew – equally – that she was still several meters from the closest one.

Someone across the room murmured to his neighbor and Linda swung to face the person, tilting her head slightly to better catch the sound. John smirked; there was no doubt that Linda knew exactly where she was now.

Moving forward more purposefully, Linda halted just outside the ring where the tables would have stood and inched her way towards the large red ball carefully. She reached out with one hand and bumped into the thing suddenly.

Unwarned that the object moved, though, Linda swung the large stick of wood at her target, one-handed. The Marines standing by the pulley system jerked the controls, swinging the ball forward and smacking Linda in the chest with it. The entire room burst into laughter.

"Get it, Linda!" one Marine called encouragingly as Linda swatted the target away with one hand.

True to form, Linda found the target with her hand again before swinging. This time, though, she kept one hand in contact with it, and landed a solid hit. It was a one-handed swing, but the ball crumpled slightly on the side she had hit it.

"Damn," Kris muttered from where he stood watching next to the Spartans. "I thought we designed it better than that."

John merely shrugged slightly. Spartans were designed to destroy things – even in games.

"Good thing we have extras," Kris chuckled.

Linda had the target in her sights and, using one hand, had managed to beat in one side and was working quickly on the other. It jerked and bobbed, the Marines playing with the pulley controls, but Linda listened for the whine of the pulley motors and easily managed to avoid being hit again.

"She's almost through." Kris sounded excited; John glanced down in curiosity, hoping to read more from the man's body language, but then Linda broke through the ball's casing and his attention was riveted.

The ball spat forth fountains of confetti and glitter, absolutely drenching the Spartan in sparkles. Several Marines lost their fight to stay on their feet and sank to the ground or leaned on their neighbors, laughing so hard John hoped no one busted a rib. Linda, in a slight shock, stood still for a moment and then shook herself hard, dislodging the bandana.

"Yay, Linda!" Kris called through tears of mirth. "Queen of the Piñata!"

Linda just shook her head, trying to get the glitter out of her hair, but it was stuck fast – John suspected the pieces may have been coated in a sticky substance, judging by how _much_ stuck on her dress uniform. It would be hell on the janitorial squad to get it all out.

However, interestingly, John found himself not caring for a moment, grinning as Linda half-glared at Kris but broke into a smile nonetheless. His sister may be calm and collected, but recently, she had been more silent than usual, as had they all. Seeing her covered in glitter, chuckling quietly – the closest she ever came to a full laugh – made him happy.

Linda scooped up a handful of the glitter and dashed towards her siblings. Everyone in the vicinity scattered, including John, Fred, and Kelly. Linda ignored her sister; no one could catch Kelly if she didn't want them to. Instead, she chose a target from her brothers, and apparently decided John would look best in glitter.

Fred agreed and the pair worked seamlessly, driving John towards the pile of glitter in the center of the room. John eyed his brother, knowing Fred was helping Linda so that _he_ didn't get a dousing in glitter. In a moment of distraction – another Marine dashing away from Linda swung close – Linda launched herself at John, taking them both down into the pile of glitter. With a swift movement, John found himself being rolled in the stuff, Linda chuckling softly as she rolled them.

After a couple good rolls, she let him up, and John stood to find himself absolutely covered in the glittery sparkles. He tried wiping it off but merely wound up smearing it onto his hands. He frowned at Linda, but seeing as she was grinning at him, the frown melted into a smirk.

"I'm going to get you back for that," he told her, shaking glitter from his hair.

"Maybe," she agreed. "But for now, you're the glitter king."

"All hail the Queen and King of glitter!" Kris yelled, trying to get his breath back from laughing so hard.

"Hail! Hail!" the other Marines chanted, some affecting bows if they were still standing. John and Linda simultaneously rolled their eyes, but their grins didn't fade. John's cheeks were starting to ache from the movement.

"Alright, John, your turn," Kris said, stepping back up on the stage. "Come on, King of Glitter!"

This set off a fresh – if subdued due to exhaustion – round of laughter as John surrendered and mounted the stage, still dripping glitter as he walked. Kelly, Fred, and Linda sat down again as the chairs were brought back out.

The stage had been set up with a table covered in a pile of rubber bands, and a horizontal pole with three rolls of toilet paper was two meters away. The toilet paper rolls had been slightly unrolled and empty cans affixed to the hanging end to weight them down.

"I'll need another pair of volunteers," Kris called into the crowd. Several Marines excitedly yelled to be chosen, and eventually, Kris asked for Julie and Turtle to join him on the stage. They had clearly been briefed on the game as they stood at the table and pulled a portion of the pile of rubber bands to themselves.

"Alright, now this game is simple," Kris said, nodding to the table. "You get those rubber bands and you shoot them at the toilet paper. Your objective is to break the toilet paper and drop the can. Any questions?"

John shook his head, picking up a rubber band and rolling it in his fingers. He'd had to be careful with his strength, or he'd break the thin bands.

"Go!"

John watched each Marine shoot the rubber bands for a second, seeing their technique, and then made a fist, stuck his thumb up, looped the rubber band around it, pulled back, and let fly.

It swatted him in the back of the thumb, a slight sting that John frowned at. Several of the Marines laughed and yelled suggestions, and John realigned his thumb and rubber band. He didn't hit the toilet paper, but at least the rubber band didn't hit him.

After a few more shots, he figured out how to aim the projectiles. By this time, of course, his opponents had scored quite a few hits themselves, their toilet paper starting to tear.

John carefully lined up his "targeting reticule" with the paper and let fly, outpacing the Marines. While he generally didn't like the "spray and pray" mentality, here, he thought it was appropriate.

Turtle was the first to drop his can and cheered. John scored a hit on the can that dropped it right after that. Julie won third place after John turned his new-found skills to her target and helped her a little.

"Alright, Turtle!" Kris said, congratulating the Marine. He and Julie waved to the crowd and left the stage; when John went to follow, Kris stopped him quickly. "And, now, for the big event!"

An expectant hush fell over the crowd, and all four Spartans – apparently the only ones in the room without forewarning – shared glances.

"I'd like to ask Linda, Kelly, and Fred to join John on the stage. Bring the chairs," Kris told the three Spartans on the floor. They obeyed quickly, Kelly bringing John a chair as well. "Sit down and we'll blindfold you." Amused, the four large soldiers did as they were asked, closing their eyes; they were positioned so that they faced the wall, left sides to the crowd. The two stagehands quickly tied thick bananas over their faces.

The room was quiet, but there was a lot of muttering still as Marines talked quietly. John heard Kris shift slightly and thought he might be nodding to someone. The Spartans, not knowing what to expect, listened to their environment for cues.

The door on the far side of the garage opened and John heard several people smothering noises. Something must be approaching – the smothered noises moved forward towards the four Spartans on the stage.

As whatever it was approached, John could make out several sets of footsteps, three of them unsure and several others more confident. The group stepped up onto the stage.

"Now, in a moment," Kris said, his voice hushed with contained excitement, "we'll lift your bandanas simultaneously. Try not to hurt anyone."

John felt hands at the back of his head, holding the knot that held the bandana to his head. He listened carefully – Kris's comment about not hurting anyone made him wonder what kind of plan the Marines had come up with.

When the Marine behind him yanked off the bandana, John felt as though he might stop breathing. The three figures standing before him clearly felt the same, and he felt Kelly, next to him, stiffen even as they stood.

Like in a dream, before him, stood three of his Spartans – missing and now found.

"John!" Jerome said in surprise. Douglas and Alice, however, moved immediately into action.

"Kelly! Linda!" Alice stepped forward as the two other females did the same, grasping each other by the shoulder and grinning widely enough to split cheeks. They rested their foreheads together, closing their eyes and reveling in each other's presence.

"Fred!" Douglas roared in greeting, grabbing the slightly shorter Spartan and pulling him into a fierce hug.

John stood and crossed to Jerome, grinning. "Jerome," he said in greeting, offering his hand. He knew Jerome was less inclined to physical displays of affection.

"Oh, forget that," Jerome laughed, hugging his brother. "Gods, you're alive! And sparkling!"

John hugged Jerome forcefully, not answering. They were alive – siblings he'd never thought he'd see again. Jerome had been one of Red Team's leaders, specializing in sharpshooting. He – and Douglas and Alice – had been lost with the UNSC _Spirit of Fire_ and given up for dead.

Vaguely, John knew the Marines gathered in the room were cheering wildly, calling congratulations and well-wishes, as the four Spartans met their three lost siblings.

When Jerome released John with a slightly embarrassed clearing of his throat, Douglas grabbed the Chief and hugged him fiercely. John grinned again, squeezing the large Spartan back. Douglas specialized in heavy weaponry and fit the task well, standing two inches taller than John.

"I swear you grow every time we see you," he told Douglas. It was a running joke, and all the Spartans laughed in agreement.

"And you've been promoted," Douglas noted, grinning. "Still the Chief, though, right?"

"So they call me," John agreed. Douglas saluted playfully and turned to Kelly.

"Alice," John said, turning to his sister. She hugged him, untangling herself from the other two females. "It's good to see you again."

One of the shorter Spartans, Alice's head bumped John's nose as she buries her face in his neck. "They told us you were alive," she muttered. "But they wouldn't let us see you."

John smiled. "Best present ever," he chuckled.

The other Spartans agreed enthusiastically.

After trading hugs and assurances that they were really there, the Spartans remembered they had an audience. John turned to Kris, who was watching with a slightly tender smile on his face.

Before John could even try to express his gratitude for arranging the reunion, though, Kris merely waved the Spartan's words away. "I'm not one for speeches, John," Kris said, an outright lie, "but when we heard brass was holding your siblings and hadn't notified you, well, we decided that wasn't right. Went straight to the top and got Admiral Hood's permission to host this reunion party. We had to delay it a bit 'cause we needed a good reason that wouldn't make you suspicious…" He grinned and several Marines whistled comment. "But seriously, you all," Kris fixed each Spartan with his eyes for a moment, "saved our asses. And I think I speak for all of us when we say _'thank you'_ – and if there's anything you ever need, we'll always be there for you."

John smiled slightly. "Thank you," he said, addressing his words to Kris and the larger crowd simultaneously. "We've learned a lot from you all, and we're all very grateful for what you've taught and given us."

"Now, enough sap!" Kris yelled, beckoning to the stage hands. "It's game time! This is Christmas and I'll be damned if we don't celebrate it – and this reunion – with everything we have!"

"Hoorah!" the crowd thundered. The "tree" was retrieved and set in a corner, another piñata affixed to the pulley system, and several other activities and games – and food – set around the perimeter of the room. Music started booming from the speakers.

"I know you'll want to retreat and talk," Kris said quietly to John and the Spartans as the set-up was taking place. "But we'd really love to meet you three," he told Douglas, Jerome, and Alice, "and we _do_ want to celebrate this with you, if that's okay."

"Perfectly," John assured him. "Especially if you happen to have a few more surprise piñatas."

"That we do," Kris laughed. "Go on, have fun." He shooed them off the stage, which was quickly becoming a dance floor, and turned to his next task as host.

Douglas slung an arm over Kelly's and Fred's shoulders, while Linda leaned on Jerome and Alice stuck to John. "Where to first, Commander?" Douglas asked, grinning.

John smirked back. "Split up and recon," he ordered. He directed Alice towards the bobbing for apples station and introduced her to several Marines. She wasn't, he noted happily, as stiff as he'd feared, and figured she – and her team – had spent more time in contact with the Marines on the _Spirit of Fire_ than usual. She traded greetings, jokes, and quips easily, and even took a turn bobbing for apples.

John grinned, unsure how the day could get any better. He'd woken this morning with three siblings, and now that number had doubled. It was a good day.

_I wish you could see this_, he thought, directing his attention to Cortana for a moment. The pain he usually felt when thinking about her death wasn't as sharp as usual, buffered by the relief and happiness in having found more of his siblings.

He realized he finally had an answer for her, too.

_Neither of us are machines. _


End file.
